Stealing the Countess (23 page)

I walked along the sidewalk to Manypenny, hung a right and then another on South First Street, moving with purpose. I reached Rittenhouse Avenue and slowed. My hand went to my stomach. I patted the handgun beneath my shirt and turned right again. I took a dozen steps toward the Pier Plaza before I realized that the man in the sports coat had disappeared. I stopped and searched the avenue for him.

There,
my inner voice said.

The man in the sports coat was still on Rittenhouse, but he was heading away from the lake, moving at a brisk pace. He was no longer holding his ice cream cone. I followed.

He took us past Greunke's First Street Inn, Big Water Coffee Roasters, and Brownstone Centre Gallery and Gift Shops before heading east on Second Street. I matched his speed while remaining at a discreet distance. Not once did he look behind him.

We soon left the downtown area and became surrounded by residential housing. My first thought was that he didn't know I was following and would soon lead me to where he was staying. That changed, though, when he angled north on Washington Avenue and headed toward the Iron Bridge Hiking and Nature Trail.

In the back of my mind I could hear my father telling stories about fighting in bitter cold with the 1st Marines at the Chosin Reservoir in Korea. He had been outraged that the newspapers back home called it a “retreat.”

We weren't retreating,
he said.
We were finding a better place to fight.

I pulled the Ruger out from beneath my shirt and thumbed off the safety.

“Wait,” I said.

The man reached under his sports coat and brought out his own handgun. I was desperate for him to turn and shoot at me so I could shoot back. He didn't. Instead, he started running.

I gave chase, carrying the Ruger with both hands. It was lighter than I was used to; I doubt it weighed much more than a can of chunky chicken noodle soup—not that I eat that stuff.

The man in the sports coat turned into the parking lot, dashed across it, scrambled over the hardpack, rocks, and brush, and disappeared into the ravine. I closed the distance between us, yet deliberately slowed when I reached the edge.

I could no longer see him.

There were rocks and brush where the creek flowed and thick forest on both sides—plenty of places to spring from ambush. A narrow trail cut through and around it all. I followed it, advancing cautiously.

The trail took me beneath the iron bridge. I was no longer able to see the street or any structures. I might as well have been in the Amazon rain forest for all the landmarks I could identify.

I kept moving.

There was still a half hour of sunlight left, yet inside the ravine it could have been midnight. I nearly stumbled on a wooden staircase leading to a wooden deck perched on the wall of the ravine that gave tourists a pleasant view of the hiking trail and creek. I climbed the steps, staying low.

From the deck I examined the creek beneath me and the trail twisting above me as best I could in the dim light. Nothing stirred. I heard nothing, not even the sound of leaves rustling in the wind.

A thought came to me then that was like a slap across the face.
What the hell are you doing chasing this guy through the forest?

What do you hope to accomplish?

You don't know who he is. You don't know why he's here, what he's doing. And if he did shoot Heavenly, what the hell is keeping him from shooting you? Fear of being seen?

Wise up.

I eased myself off the platform and cautiously backed down the trail, all the time aware of just how vulnerable I was.

Finally, I reached the parking lot.

I wanted to shout something—“Hey, pal, better luck next time” or “I'll catch ya later”—so the man in the sports coat would know that I wasn't afraid of him. Really, though, how silly was that?

Instead, I tucked the Ruger under my shirt and slowly retraced my steps along Washington to Second Street. I looked over my shoulder only a half-dozen times.

*   *   *

The bluegrass band had just completed its second set and was receiving a hearty ovation by the time I returned to Memorial Park. I searched for Maryanne Altavilla, yet could not find her in the departing crowd. I knew she was staying at the Bayfield Inn, though, so I headed in that direction with the idea of returning her handgun.

My smartphone played “West End Blues” before I reached the entrance. The caller ID read
SCHROEDER PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS.

“McKenzie,” I said.

“McKenzie, Greg Schroeder.”

I nearly said, “I forgot all about you,” but caught myself. “It's about time,” I said instead. “How long does it take to check out a lousy fifty-nine names, anyway?”

“Hey, man, you owe me big for this one.”

“I thought it was understood that I was only paying your going rate.”

“Ha, ha.”

“What do you have for me, Greg?”

“Are you sitting down?”

“Why? Is this going to be a long story?”

“A little bit.”

“Do me a favor. Just skip to the ending.”

“I not only know the name of the man who stole the Countess Borromeo, I know where he lives.”

 

THIRTEEN

The door to Heavenly's hospital room was propped open. I knocked anyway as I stepped past it. Heavenly was sitting up in bed and talking on a cell phone. She was dressed in a hospital gown identical to the one she wore the day before. The sling was different, however. It was a very pale blue and seemed to hold her left arm closer to her body.

“Someone just came in,” she said. “I need to go … Yes, I'll call you soon.”

Heavenly dropped the cell on the bed and swung her legs over the side. She stood gingerly, although if she was experiencing any discomfort, her face didn't show it.

“Ordering a pizza?” I asked.

“My mom. What did you bring me?”

I set a shopping bag on the bed.

“Your mother?” I asked.

“You don't think I have a mother?”

“I've often wondered.”

Heavenly opened the bag, dumped the contents on top of the bedspread, and began sorting through them: dress shirt, jeans, socks, boots, and underwear.

“Her name's Patricia, Patricia Petryk,” Heavenly said. “She lives in Denver with my aunts Monica and Florence. In my family, they're known as ‘the Sisters,' as in
you don't want to mess with the Sisters.
They're the ones who raised me after my father dumped Mom for a younger woman when I was in the eighth grade. I've only seen him twice since then, once at his wedding, the second time at his funeral.”

“I lost my mother when I was in the sixth grade,” I said. “Cancer.”

“It's not the same thing.”

“It's not?”

“I bet she didn't want to leave you.”

No,
my inner voice reminded me.
She didn't.

“Did you tell your mother that you were shot?” I asked.

“Lord, no. Only that I fell and broke my collarbone. My mother thinks I work as a freelance security consultant. I try to keep it vague. I've practiced conversations in my head where I tell her what I really do, but it always sounds like I'm explaining a joke.” Heavenly held up the lavender bra and panties I had brought; there wasn't much to them. “Really, McKenzie? This is what you picked?”

“It was what was on top,” I said.

Heavenly smiled. It was one of her favorite things to do—embarrass me.

“I'll step outside,” I said.

“No, that's okay.”

Heavenly gathered up her clothes and moved into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. I gave her a slow twenty count before retrieving her cell phone. It was a flip phone, the kind you can buy at Target for $19.99—not the expensive smartphone I saw her use earlier. I felt a little guilty when I examined her call log, but then she had given me reason to be suspicious of her, hadn't she?

At least fifty thousand reasons,
my inner voice reminded me.

I discovered that several calls had been made in the past week, one incoming, four outgoing, all to a single number with a 215 prefix. No other telephone numbers appeared.

I heard a noise from the bathroom, a cross between a moan and a curse. I dropped the phone back on the bed and went to the window. The fields outside hadn't changed since the last time I looked at them. I pretended to gaze at them anyway while I pulled out my own smartphone and inputted the 215 number into a reverse phone directory that I had an account with. The information the Web site returned:

Phone Type—cell phone

Company—Unknown

Name—Unknown

Location—Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Heavenly called to me a few minutes later. “McKenzie.”

I don't know why, but I knocked on the bathroom door even as I opened it just far enough to poke my head in. Her back was to me, and she was clutching her shirt to her chest. She stared straight ahead.

“Help me,” she said.

“What?”

Heavenly was wearing jeans and boots; her sling was draped over the sink. Her bra straps were hanging on her shoulders, but the clasp was undone.

“I can't move my arm behind my back,” she said. She refused to turn her head to look at me and for the first time since I had known her, she was the one who was embarrassed. “I tried hooking it in front and then turning it around, but I can't slide my arm through the strap. Could you…”

I hooked the bra ends together.

“I have a couple of bras that snap in front,” Heavenly said. “I should have asked you to bring one of those, but I didn't think.”

I left without a word, closing the door behind me.

A couple of minutes later, Heavenly left the bathroom, the sling holding her damaged arm against her torso. I was surprised when she wrapped her good arm around my waist and rested her head against my chest.

“I've teased you so often for so long, and when you had the perfect chance to tease me back, you didn't take it,” she said.

“I'm a helluva guy.”

“One of the very few.”

“Has it really been as bad as all that, Heavenly?”

“One of these days I'll tell you about my father.”

“You already told me enough.”

“No, not even close.”

“Let's go.”

Heavenly gathered her few belongings into the wicker bag, including her cell. She took her time.

“I need to be careful,” Heavenly said. “Dr. Sauer warned me about sudden movements.”

“I have to say, even shot up you look like a million bucks.”

“Yeah, green and wrinkled.”

“No, I mean it. You look like money.”

“Any woman under the age of forty who stays out of the sun and doesn't have a weight problem looks like money. Are we going back to Bayfield?”

“To start with.”

“What does that mean?”

“I have a plan.”

“Would you like to share?”

“Nope.”

*   *   *

I helped Heavenly into the Mustang, tilting the passenger seat forward so that her back was straight. A few minutes later, we were on Highway 13 and approaching Washburn. The windows were down, and the warm summer wind was blowing through her hair. She didn't seem to mind, even though several times she had to brush it out of her face.

“Hungry?” I asked. “Thirsty? Do you want to stop?”

“No, I'm okay.”

“Just let me know.”

Heavenly rummaged through her wicker bag with her right hand while trying mightily to keep her left side immobile. She found a small orange medicine canister and popped the white cap off with her thumb. She shook out two pills and swallowed them. The remaining pills she dumped out the window; they scattered like snowflakes on the pavement behind us.

“Aren't you going to need those?” I asked.

“They make me light-headed. Besides, pain doesn't hurt.”

“Who told you that?”

“Patrick Swayze in
Road House.
”

“And you believed him?”

By then we were through Washburn and on the fast track to Bayfield.

“What's that smell?” Heavenly asked.

“Disinfectant.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry about the blood.”

“That's okay. She cleaned up real nice.”

“This is a fabulous car. I like it much better than your old Audi.”

“Nina gave it to me. For my birthday.”

“That's too bad.”

“It is?”

“Too bad that she feels she needs to buy your affection with expensive gifts.”

“I'm going to tell her you said that.”

“Do you tell Nina everything?”

“Pretty much.”

“I wish I had someone I could tell all my secrets to.”

“You could tell me.”

“Hardly.”

“How 'bout the Sisters?”

“Them least of all.”

“By the way, Nina said you're welcome to stay with us while you recover from your wounds.”

Heavenly's head snapped toward me. She stared for a good ten seconds before she replied.

“That bitch,” she said.

*   *   *

Bayfield came up in a hurry. I slowed and cautiously maneuvered the Mustang along the highway as it angled through town. It was midmorning on a Friday, and the number of tourists on the streets appeared to have doubled; some of them seemed to think that the traffic laws only applied when they were at home. I surprised Heavenly when I didn't take the turn for the Queen Anne, but instead remained on 13 until it led us out of town.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Duluth.”

“What about my stuff?”

“Packed up and stored in the trunk.”

“And my car?”

“I called the rental company. They're sending someone over to pick it up, although they said they're going to charge Caroline's credit card extra for the service. By the way, someone broke into your room at the Queen Anne sometime after you were shot, searched it pretty thoroughly. I don't suppose you know what the burglar was looking for?”